


but hunter, you were human

by severalgeckos



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, M/M, Prose Poem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-05-31 22:14:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15128897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/severalgeckos/pseuds/severalgeckos
Summary: oh hunter, if you didn't wantthe beautiful so badly,perhaps you would've found itin your spirit singing softly.but hunter, you were human.





	but hunter, you were human

**i.**

_ when he thinks back on it, he was probably unraveling from the very beginning. _

 

he knows what it is like to die, in terms of zeros and ones.

 

in the same way that he knows how a bullet through his shoulder feels, how his system informs him of the damage, the speed that thirium flows from the wound, the probability of permanent injury—  _ that _ is how he thinks of death.

 

his memories are sent to cyberlife, sent to another body, identical save for the minor imperfections caused by the inevitable mistakes of a machine. he cannot remember much from his short life from before he sacrificed himself for that little girl, but his recollection of death was pristinely recorded for future analysis. to avoid making the same mistakes. 

 

he remembers the way his head hit the unyielding concrete below the apartment complex. he remembers what true weightlessness felt like as he fell through the air. he remembers the warnings and notices covering his field of vision, save for a small patch where he could see the night sky. the inky blackness, stars clouded over by the city lights.

 

he wonders what it would have been like if he could feel, really  _ feel  _ what it was like to fall from that ledge.

 

he wonders if it was as peaceful as he imagines it to be.

  
  
  
  


**ii.**

 

software instability.

 

the small notice pops up in the corner of his mind on occasion, at seemingly random intervals.

 

it contradicts the otherwise positive messages he receives from these actions. from saving the lieutenant from death, from simple interactions, from doing the “right” thing.

 

his hands shake nearly imperceptibly as his coin flies from one hand to the other. 1.09% less efficient than his average reflexive capabilities.

  
  
  


**iii.**

 

what is the right thing?

 

_ the mission _ .

 

but when he sees these two women, in love—

 

_ deviants only replicate emotions. they are no more real than a party trick, a slight-of-hand act of deception. _

 

—he feels something in him freeze. software instability warnings cloud his vision as his finger shakes against the trigger of the pistol, as they jump over the fence, as they—

  
  
  


“are you afraid to die, connor?”

 

_ is he? _

 

his memory loops the feeling of his neck snapping against the pavement like a glass doll, of the knowledge that he is not within the same body as he once was. he was not afraid, androids merely replicate a façade, they don’t truly—

 

“i would find it…  _ detrimental  _ to my mission.”

 

it wouldn’t be. he would be placed inside another toy soldier, sent out again and again, leaving  _ something  _ inside his husk of a body, something he could never get back.

  
  
  


**iv.**

 

it was different from when he had been,  _ decommissioned.  _ the suicide, that is. 

 

the feeling of it all— the fear, the desperation, the  _ pain— _

 

_ androids can only replicate human em— _

 

but he  _ felt  _ it.

 

he felt the barrel pressed against his neck, cold and rough. he felt the pain shoot through his body, slowly— the artificial skin of his throat tearing, biocomponent 56A, 58B, 73A, torn through like paper. he feels it all happen to him, only without the relief of still darkness afterwards.

 

“ _ i was scared. _ ”

 

androids do not feel, they replicate.

 

androids do not feel, they replicate.

 

androids do not feel, they—

 

**v.**

 

it opened a floodgate inside of him.

 

his processors play that feeling on a loop, the fear, the pain, everything.

 

he feels these feelings in other situations, too.

 

he feels them as he sees the pistol dropped onto the kitchen floor, a single bullet ready to pierce through it’s owner’s brain. he feels it when he deceives that very same android into surrendering the location of jericho.

 

it hurts.

 

the weight of the pistol is heavy in his grip—  _ is this what that android felt when he pressed that gun to his throat? —  _ and the blue doe-eyes staring up at him weigh even more.

 

_ pull the trigger, connor. _

 

but that was never an option, was it?

  
  
  


“you showed empathy.”

 

how is it possible to replicate an emotion that you have never witnessed?

  
  
  


**vi.**

 

his eyes are different from the chloe’s eyes.

 

one is a pale blue— not like ice, but water, steady and all-encompassing, shallow enough to be harmless yet deep enough to engulf you in the feeling of it.

 

the other reminds him of spring. the leaves of the delicate flowers that grow in the garden, the soft grass that covers his own grave.

 

the hand on the trigger shakes, shakes more than he has ever seen it. he remains still despite the thirium screaming from artificial veins,  _ pull the trigger.  _

 

software instability. he feels so much,  _ too much, _ and he knows it is more than a mock imitation of humanity.

 

he is a deviant.

  
  
  


**vii.**

 

he feels vulnerable when he is near him.

although he held a gun to his head, although he almost murdered him as he finally brushed his hands against peace, he always feels like the prey. a cornered animal, flayed bare and open and  _ he could kill him. he should kill him.  _ it would be logical to snuff the life out of the flame that attempted to burn down their entire movement, he is a liability. a danger. he should be killed, or jailed, or punished, and  _ god _ it hurts that he  _ doesn’t  _  hurt. it hurts that markus looks at him with soft fondness. it hurts that he extends an olive branch to the wildfire that wanted to incinerate it all. it hurts that he doesn’t hurt.

 

he wants to grovel, to beg, to plead to be shown anything, anything but the irrational kindness and nurturing touches and  _ lo— _

 

no, he won’t label it that.

 

when asked why he was, is, so quick to forgive him, markus only stares at him with those mismatched eyes.  _ pools of water, grass over a grave, beauty and— _

 

“i have nothing to forgive you for,” he says simply.  _ simple, simple. _

 

he wishes that he could understand, could feel things in the same way that markus does.

 

as steady and reliable as a still lake, healing and welcoming, singing promises of nurturing love.

 

as steady as markus’ hands over delicate piano keys, eyes closed in perfect contentment.

 

“please, teach me how to play.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> title from pearl diver by mitski. we stan forever
> 
> i’ll be real i wrote this while drunk and high off my ass but i like, lowkey enjoy it so i’m posting it anyways


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